


Ciperion

by yeoltidecarol



Category: GOT7
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Anxiety Attacks, Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Eventual Smut, F/M, Ghosts, Grief/Mourning, Horror, Memory Magic, Minor Character Death, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Reincarnation, Romance, Shipwrecks, mostly a ghost ship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:02:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26085373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeoltidecarol/pseuds/yeoltidecarol
Summary: Everyone on the Isle Indolon knows the story of Ciperion, though none believe it is true. Over centuries, the tale of the long lost ghost ship on the high seas has become little more than urban legend. In his youth, Jaebeom always thought the story was heartbreaking, and he did his best to avoid it - the same way he avoids the missionaries that have taken occupation on the island. On the anniversary of Ciperion’s ill-fated port date, you wash up on sea, and only you have the answers he’s always been seeking. If only you could remember who you are.
Relationships: Im Jaebum | JB & You, Im Jaebum | JB/Original Female Character(s), Im Jaebum | JB/You
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	Ciperion

Three hundred miles off the emerald coast of Isle Indolon, Second Mate Ansil Green looks up at the shimmering night of the dark sky and feels a chill of apprehension burrow deep within his bones. 

There are only three days left to their journey, and for five months he has charted each with meticulous accuracy. It is easy to rely on the stars, he thinks. Their steadfast illumination and the reassurance found in their seasonal rotation have brought him immeasurable comfort throughout his life, and not once, not even on nights when storms threaten to eat their way through the ship’s bowsprit, have they ever led him astray. 

In the berthing hull, the missionaries say their prayers with tightly clasped hands, while others read their scrolls in preparation for new lectures once they reach the shore. Back in Indolon, Ansil’s wife and two children anxiously await his triumphant return, and everyone, every crew member and stow away rat, is eager to breach land. Even now, he can see it clearly - his wife’s pretty eyes as she laughs, small crescent moons that remind him of the night sky; the youthful, almost violent laughter of his sons as they play in the fields; the creaking if their iron bed frame as he rocks between her thighs, not unlike the ship as she rocks against the sea. 

Tonight, he wonders if these simple treasures have fallen too far out of reach, if they have slipped, imperceptibly, out of his grasp. 

Because tonight, the stars are wrong. 

Gripping the mahogany banister, he leans against the side and cranes his neck, angling his view slightly to the right in the hopes of correcting the pattern. Something about this is terribly wrong, wrong enough that the deepening doubt bites at him, heating his skin like a fever. Chewing the inside of his cheek, he does his best to swallow this worry, attempts, rather meekly, to focus on the light flapping of the mainsail above him, on its rhythmic and soothing white noise that often helps him drift, hazily, through sleepless nights. Now, it offers him little comfort, the wind that moves the ship rustling through his hair, stroking against the shell of his ear, carrying whispers of splintered wood and rocky shores blackened by sea water mixing with spilled blood.

Heavy footsteps make their approach from behind, the purposeful strides and confident gait of Captain Grier L’Allante causing the heels of his boots to shatter the false sense of peace. Ansil does not move to greet his Captain, and while this would be considered an insult on any other crew ship, he supposes Grier has become used to his flippant and yet focused attitude when the stars are out, decades of manning ships alongside one another having reduced the rules of propriety almost entirely non-existent. Keeping his gaze on the sky, he feels Grier come to stand beside him, the heat of his closeness full of pride and awe; admiring the vastness of the sea before him, he exudes an energy that puts a sour taste in the back of Ansil’s throat. 

How he hates to ruin the evening.

‘We’re going in the wrong direction,’ he announces, feeling Grier stiffen rather than deflate entirely.

His captain hums in consideration, never one to give over to fear or uncertainty. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Look at the stars.’ Ansil corrects his posture and regards his friend with pleading eyes. It is, perhaps, the first time he has ever shown signs of fear with his captain, but Grier maintains his composure and presses his lips into a thin line. ‘They’re at the wrong angle by about twenty-six degrees,’ he continues to explain. 

Pointing up at the constellation Cassiopeia, he gestures a long straight line back behind him, back towards the foresail, in the direction of Hydra. Turning once again to look at Grier, he waits for some kind of flicker of emotion to pass over his features, and when nothing comes, he simply sighs, pressing his friend for more. 

‘This distance shouldn’t be this wide,’ he offers grimly, straightening his posture to stand at his full height. ‘Did we turn?’

‘No.’ Grier barks his reply with forceful authority, though, behind his eyes there is a storm brewing, a brief flash of concern that placates Ansil. ‘I helm this ship myself, and you know in your heart we haven’t turned. You said straight on until dawn, and the wind is steady at four knots to the South-West. We’re still on course.’

In unison, they turn back to the sky, and Ansil tightens his grip on the railing. ‘There’s something bad about this. I can feel it.’

Grier chuckles amicably. ‘What you’re feeling is five months staring at the same bloody lights in the sky.’ His gaze falls on Ansil’s profile, and he can feel him regarding his features with probing scrutiny. ‘You didn’t even take a woman at the last port,’ he states, nudging his shoulder with a force that makes Ansil lean to the side. 

‘They’re not precisely the same,’ he admonishes with a laugh. Grier regards him expectantly, but all Ansil can manage is a sigh of longing. He’d love to laugh at this kind of crude joke, and normally he would, but three days is somehow longer than five insurmountable months, the ability to count them transmuting the number into something brutal. ‘And you know I’d never do that to Mala.’

Taking off his hat, Grier runs a hand through the greasy black strands of his hair, grimacing through his laugh. ‘Too loyal for your own good.’

This is something Ansil can tease him about, and he offers his friend an impish grin, taking his own opportunity to nudge Greir’s shoulder roughly, revealing his hidden strength. ‘And your prick is too slippery for your health.’

It’s childish, the way they punch their fists into one another’s arms, the jovial nature of this making him feel as though they are teenagers once again. At once, he is nineteen and Grier has just convinced him to come out to sea, to stow away on his father’s vessel, and they are laughing at the reckless foolishness of this idea. But they are smiling, already hungry for the adventure, already wanting the spray from the waves and the salt that shall never leave their skin. They are young and they are hopeful, and now, even after the bloodshed and the violence and the horror they have seen among the ocean, he thinks they have never been quite as dangerous as they were then.

‘You need rest, mate,’ Grier advises once they’ve settled back against the railing. They look out over the ocean, the water as black as the night it reflects, light of the moon illuminating the peaks of waves and casting shadows behind them as long as the sea is wide. Releasing a deep sigh through the flare of his nostrils, he suddenly becomes alarmingly serious. ‘Otherwise, it’s scurvy.’

A beat of silence passes between them, a pregnant pause in which neither one of them breathes, the word hanging heavily between them both, unwilling to be touched. Until, they erupt into laughter, Ansil leaning against the railing to steady himself atop the wet baseboards. A wave hits the side of the ship and sprays gently against his cheeks, cooling his skin and for a moment, he is grounded in the happiness of this. For a moment, the sky is clear and he can see Grier’s warm, too kind smile; can see the way the ship is heading home, steadfast and unyielding in her journey.

For a moment, there is peace.

Calming his breath, he runs a hand over his face and nods. ‘What I would give for a peach.’ 

Ansil waits for the inevitable hum of commiseration, a sound of companionship in the memory of the juicy ripeness of Indolon peaches - the yellow of their fruit so moist it would leave their hands sticky for days. He can almost taste the burst of flavor in his mouth, tongue wet in desperation for something other than the salt and brine of oysters and trout, and finds the only consolation for this hunger is that they shall arrive in time for the peak season. 

Ansil waits for Grier, but the sound never comes, his captain watching the waves beyond the ship with lips parted in pale shock. Knotting his brow, Ansil takes his time turning to look where Grier’s focus rests, the tendrils of dread rising once more within his belly. The fear in him feels almost inhuman, taking full control of his joints as they stiffen, keeping him rigid and held firmly in place. Grier continues looking out to sea, blood rushing away from his cheeks, likely retreating within to service more important pieces in preparation of survival. 

When Ansil finally gathers his strength, he swallows thickly, and looks out to the water. He has lived through war - a great many battles on Naval ships both larger and smaller than this. He has seen dying men beg for both life and death, the fear in their eyes making it unclear which they crave more. He has seen waves rise taller than the ships he crews, seeking an immortal companion for her enduring loneliness. 

But he has never seen fog overtake the earth quite like this, or with such wrath.

It comes from nowhere and everywhere all at once, swallowing both sea and sky as it crawls across the horizon. From its center, an ethereal light seems to glow, a beacon to herald the nothingness that surrounds them, but even this light too is a half formed shadow, the core of its rays smeared across miles as it spreads within the clouds. The blood in his ears in unrelenting, the rush of his blood to his thunderous heart making his head begin to hurt as he watches it spread. Has anything ever been so fast? 

The fog works quickly to cover everything in sight, racing towards the ship at a speed he simply cannot comprehend. When he was young, and newly appointed to Third Mate Naval Officer, he sailed aboard the Cygnus, the fastest ship Indolon had ever produced - reaching a record breaking thirteen knots in the correct wind conditions. Somehow, this fog is so much faster, ravenous for absolutely everything it touches as the waves begin to still beneath its touch. 

The wind ceases.

The waves still, cannibalised by the fog.

And as he looks to Grier, their eyes mirroring the horror they find in each other, he realizes the ship has come to a full stop.

It is when the fog touches the boat that he hears it, the anguished screaming of men beneath their feet. Even at war, he has never heard such terror as this. The sound is born from men suddenly learning that they will die, this death an ambush to the unsuspecting and therefore all the more gruesome in its wake. He regards his feet with a disgust that taints his numbness, the abjection of this noise releasing a myriad of feelings within his veins - the urge to run, the urge to scream, a tightness in his throat so painful he fears he may suffocate on the size of it, and the overwhelming desire to cry. Yet, it seems his body cannot decide upon any of these, and so settles on none, rendering him absolutely and completely silent. 

They stand above the berthing hull, listening to the missionaries burst to life for one extraordinary moment before their echoes die one by one, their last breath a wail of anguish. As Ansil takes in a long, slow inhale to steady his growing panic, he can smell the acrid stench of blood and piss wafting up between the boards, bile rising to the back of his throat. The silence that befalls them in the aftermath is threatening, an eerie calm that raises gooseflesh along his skin. Bones brittle and mouth dry, he simply stares at Grier and takes in every detail he can, unfailingly certain this is the last time they will see one another. 

In the distant horizon a tall mast looms beyond the mist, the main mast taller than that of their vessel. The crow’s nest is empty, and if he focuses long enough he has the passing sensation he could look right through the wood into an empty, eternal void. 

‘It can’t be,’ he whispers, reminding himself it is just a legend and that legends are buried in the past.

They are _buried._

His voice carries no echo, the atmosphere around them tight enough his voice lives and dies before him, reaching nowhere else but his own ears. Grier does not even react, does not make any movement at all, save for the shifting of his attention to the world behind Ansil, eyes trained on something that makes his adam’s apple bob in the effort of swallowing his trepidation. 

A bead of sweat glides down Ansil’s spine, and he can feel an angry shadow looming behind him. Burning like hellfire, he waits for the scent of his own flesh bubbling beneath his chemise to reach his nose, readying for immolation. Death comes slowly for people like him, he supposes. It likes to take its time weighing the worth of his soul and the value of his existence. He has made love and he has made life, but he has taken far more than he has created, and so he suspects this slow conquering of his person is deserved - retribution for the bloodstains etched into his palms.

‘Ciperion,’ Grier says, eyes widening in sudden, terrible realization.

It is the last thing Ansil sees and hears before cold hands wrap around his jaw, pressing fingers into his mouth and pulling until the pain in his bones, his skin, his muscles is so great the world turns black.

~~~~~~

Standing on the old oak dock behind his home, Jaebeom stares out at the open sea and knows that, today, the water is ruthless. 

He can feel the rage beneath her waves, the violent and unforgiving aggression of the current guiding the water as it rolls up against the edge of the dock, shaking its legs as if testing the foundation’s strength. The first light of morning is unable to penetrate the intense cloud cover along the horizon, their peaks and valleys tinged with red shadows behind the murky green and black. Awake far too early to begin his descent to the jetty, he balls his fists in the pockets of his linen coat and eyes the gathering storm with suspicion. 

Once again, he’s been brought out.

Pulled from his feather bed by some unseen force, it has become a habit for him to spend his early hours on the dock, overtaken by a profound sense of longing. Rooting himself to the wood, he has grown used to the passage of time that drifts beyond him, and finds that he is unencumbered by these lost moments. It’s been happening more often as late, his sleep interrupted by the desire to _see_ and to _know_ , an endless stream of questions burning at the back of his mind that chase the sleep from his limbs. But, always, the words are garbled, the thoughts unclear. 

It is worse today - somehow, he knows this with all of his being. Even as he stands, completely alone and unseen, he feels naked all the way down to his nerves. Narrowing his eyes, he peers at the water, unblinking, taking hold of the ache within his chest. Something is missing, has been lost. Or, perhaps, it was taken from him, the intense longing in his chest delivering him a nostalgia too great to be expressed or understood. If he looks long enough, he can almost envision it emerging from the horizon, precariously balanced as though hanging on a thread. 

But the image never fully forms, never reveals its nature, and he is left bereft, hissing a sigh of frustration between his teeth. 

Gulls pass overhead, making way for the Southern shore. Their calls are the music of the morning, a siren song that only serves to mire him deep within his thoughts, and he blinks several times as he rolls his shoulders back, trying, and failing, to collect himself. The current sends a rough breeze through the thin fabric of his chemise, the uncharacteristically cool summer air nipping at his skin, and he bristles though he does not shiver. Digging his nails into his palm, he struggles to gather the will to leave, every bone in his body telling him _he must wait._

Each morning Jaebeom finds himself in this position, looking out to the open water and waiting - wanting to write love letters, wanting to write odes, often wanting to simply cry or curse the tide for what it has taken, but he remains mute, dumbfounded, lingering expectantly for an answer that will not come. And he is angry, muttering to himself that he must leave, that there is no purpose here, but the thought of missing it only serves to aggravate his insistence on keeping still, on looking and looking harder. 

‘Come on,’ he mumbles, as if willing a response from the sea.

When nothing comes, the muscles in his arms and thighs tense as he presses himself into the dock. ‘Show me,’ he hisses, emphatically.

Immediately he feels terribly silly, not even certain to whom he is speaking. It is not the first time he has made these demands, not the first time he has called out to the sea as if it would even deign to reply. The answering silence and empty air should neither surprise nor disappoint him, but as his posture curls and his chest deflates, he finds both of these things happen in quick succession. Something is out there, something beyond the place the light touches, and he thinks what frustrates him most is the endless unknowing. 

Voices along the shore break his concentration, a group of missionaries walking side by side, barefoot in the warm sand as they talk, sometimes laugh, amongst one another. The sound of their chatter breaks the magic of this hour, an unwelcome interruption to the morning solitude. At once he returns to himself, hands in his pockets relaxing out of the fists he’s been holding, and suddenly he feels rather neutral about his position on the dock, about the ocean, and the thick clouds overhead. 

The town has started to wake, the missionaries commencing their morning walk a sign that he is late - terribly late, and the time it will take him to prepare his sails and his nets will likely cause him to miss the golden fishing hour. Closing his eyes, he hangs his head and sighs, certain he will lose the best crabs of the day. 

Briskly walking along the shore to the jetty, he keeps a wide berth from the missionaries as he passes. Jaebeom keeps his eyes trained on the rocky jut of the shoreline, keeping his posture rigid in the effort of not being overtaken by the staggering sense of unease that gradually drops his feet to his stomach with each step he takes. He’s certain they must feel this, must feel the crushing weight of his discomfort, and he furrows his brow, swallows thickly, and grits his teeth as he prepares for conversation. 

‘Good day,’ they chime in unison, bowing their heads in greeting. The steely chill in their voices makes him shiver. ‘May Deus keep you.’

Jaebeom simply nods politely, but says nothing, finding no solace in their words. On instinct, his attention diverts to the slotted diamond shaped symbols on their rosaries, a sense of nausea rising in his stomach. Lifting his gaze to their faces, he focuses on their features - their eyes, their well practiced smiles, their royal blue square hats - but all the while, he battles against himself, soul willing him with all its might to look, once more, at the rosaries. 

Quickening his steps, he hurries past them, releasing a breath he did not know he had been holding. Running a hand through his hair, he chastises himself sheepishly for his disrespectful behavior. He’s old enough now, nearly thirty and well past the age of childish anxiety, to know they are harmless, _it_ is harmless, but still he feels a rattle in his bones even after they have disappeared from view. He remembers the monthly service ceremony - his mother, her pleading eyes, and his frightened distress as she brought him along. Long into the night, he would be plagued with the memory of their long faces and their empty expressions, the fear and hatred in him making him feel sick with fever. 

Eventually, he grew out of this level of anguish but still his maturity and his logical reasoning do not serve as a comfort. In the numerous missionaries that occupy Indolon, he finds no refuge, no joy, somehow more sure now, in his old age, than ever of their wrongness.

His schrooning boat is docked at the base of the rocky cliff side, just below the lighthouse and pushed far away from the crowded wharf. As he makes his approach, he feels the eyes of other fishermen bore into his spine, their judgement of him, his lack of a First Mate, a crew, and his placement of his boat always deeply felt at this hour of the morning. But he does not mind. 

Since he was small, Jaebeom’s understanding of the sea, of her nature and her cruelty, has kept him at a great distance from his peers. As a child, he preferred to listen - to listen to the ocean and to watch it change, finding a deep affinity in her tumultuous loneliness. This kind of loving relationship, he thinks, has developed into a skill that keeps his family well paid, a roof over his head, and the bellies of many full. Maintaining a crew would simply distract him, his mind less on the water and more on the work of his members. 

And while he, too, might have agreed the placement of his boat against the rocks is reckless at best, it is placed where he would catch crabs as a child with his father - the best location to spot their lavender and purple shells as they eat the moss along the stones. And just below, the bright vermillion of the king crabs glittering as they sink to the ocean floor.

Stepping onto his boat, he sheds his linen jacket and cranes his head back to observe the large mast, its mainsail tied neatly at the base with a strong sailor’s knot. Rolling up his sleeves, he lets the sea breeze kiss his warm skin, heated and dewy with moisture from his walk, and watches light behind the clouds do its best to illuminate the land below. The rains will likely start soon, the hours left in the day for adequate fishing conditions dwindling, and so he hoists himself up on the shroud, untying the sail in quick, easy motions. 

Climbing up the iron ladder connected to the mast, he reaches for the rope at the center of the sail and latches his fingers, giving one large tug to set the sail free. It flaps loosely in the wind, releasing itself to its full length, and as he makes his way down in the cover of its shadow, he looks out to the lighthouse, admiring the way the tall grass is somehow more viridescent beneath the grey skies as it reaches upwards, asking for rain. Autumn is nestled in the branches of the trees, the peak summer season soon to give way to the burning gold of autumn, but as he regards the lighthouse field he finds it difficult to imagine the world any other way than this. It’s as though the earth has always been green, always been bright, too alive to ever fully be witnessed.

As he takes in the splendor of the earth, letting pleasure root itself against his ribs, he notices, rather curiously, a pile of cloth discarded amongst the rocks. Strewn carelessly across the sharp incline, the ivory cloth has been yellowed and torn, resting long forgotten in the shallows. Narrowing his eyes, he steps off the shroud and leans over the edge of his boat, glad that it is still tied to the fender and not drifting away with the sudden displacement of his weight. As he continues to look, the ivory gives way to the vitality of flesh and long limbs, and his mouth runs dry. 

‘By Deus,’ he whispers, the dread in his veins restricting the volume of his voice. ‘It’s a person.’

Limbs moving of their own accord, Jaebeom is carried back to the dock, hands working quickly to remove his boots. Gaze unwavering, he keeps his eyes on the body, transfixed and horrified, afraid of letting his eyes wander for fear of it disappearing altogether. His heart beats like thunder against his sternum, warring with too many emotions and unable to allow any one a victor. Behind the worry, the confusion, the terror, a curious sense of relief is building, a calm that would almost have him believe he is not in the process of coming undone. 

If he focuses on it, he gets the sense that this is what he has been waiting for - not just in the morning before the dawn breaks, not just in the crash of waves against his boat and their icy waters demanding his spirit, but for always. In this moment, the hollowed sensation in his heart, the sense of something long absent, is scabbing over with each breath he takes. 

Barefoot, he moves at a slow run, something like grief and hope mixing in his blood and putting a swell in the joints of his fingers. Jaebeom stifles these feelings, grounds himself in the reality that someone might be hurt, might be in need, and reminds himself, dutifully, that it is not the time to be carried away with his emotions. Still, there is a tingle at the base of his neck, an urgency that goes beyond humanitarianism, pushing him forward with exhilaration.

_‘Help.’_

A female voice is carried on the wind, musical in its cadence and pleasurable in the way it sings its request. The ocean spray delivers it to him at the same moment the water bursts over the rocks, the sea mist rising up against his cheeks before retreating through the crevices in the earth, cooling the flush beneath his skin. Inside him, it burrows, reaching down and deep to nestle in the long empty caverns of his heart. As he moves over the rocks, carefully placing his feet to maintain his balance, he strains to hear it once more, certain it is a woman he is racing to help and she is begging to be saved. 

_'Help heal.’_

'I’m coming,’ he calls out, voice as shaky as his legs and echoing over the ocean’s roar. 

He does his best not to cut his toes on the angular shards that have been eroded over years of rough sea water, but with each step he takes the water rises over the rocks with an aggression bordering on feral, demanding all of him within its foam. With each rush of water, he has the feeling it is reaching for his ankles, hands desperate to clutch at his person and drag him down, and down. 

Yet, the closer he gets, the more he feels as though he could weep - from joy, from desperation, from loss - and this alone is enough to make him want to rush, pushing through the erratic rhythm of his heart and beyond the lump in his chest that makes each inhale ache. Now, with a clear vision of the body, it is as though you have been spit from the ocean’s mouth, cast out for your transgressions and all the corrupted ways you have disappointed the ocean. There is tragedy in the way you are draped over the rocks, body poised at woeful angles for having displeased the gods. Now, you have been forced to greet the horror of your retribution. 

Only a few rocks away, Jaebeom allows himself a brief pause and takes you in, letting his eyes take their time in their discovery of your person. Hugging himself, he suddenly feels conflicted, as though he is learning your shapes while still becoming reacquainted with something long missed. This state of being is a paradox, and in the full emptiness of it, he has the passing sensation that he is learning the essence of love, and little else. 

Shaking himself free from his idle reverence, he takes a few steps closer and notices the silk of your dress is ruined, perhaps permanently. His jaw drops slightly at the still gleaming shine of the fabric, the most expensive silk he has ever seen. It clings to your skin, dampened and tarnished, fraying at the ripped edges but still doing its best to hold you delicately, clinging to you in the effort of keeping you safe. Something about the cut of the dress triggers a memory he cannot quite reach, a familiarity in its lines and shapes that make him recall there was a purpose behind this outfit, a reason that it is both extraordinary and unforgettable, but it vanishes from him as quickly as it came. The fog in his mind is heavy, muddling his thoughts and pulling at the edges of his concentration and he knits his brow together to keep himself grounded.

In the aftermath of this brief recollection, he bites a whine of longing burning at the back of his throat, a pathetic sound of loss, regret, mourning. Your hair spills over the rocks, eyes closed and skin bruised though not scraped to bleeding. Flickers of recognition press at him, mind racing around the image of your soft lips, the high angle of your cheekbones, and the delicate elegance found in your wrists. Struggling to recall your name, Jaebeom approaches gently, coming to a kneel at your side, unsure what to say at all.

Pressing two fingers to the pulse point in your neck, he feels a dull, yet ever present, throb of life beneath your skin and releases a breath he did not know he had been holding. Alive, though just barely and unconscious, lungs likely full of sea water. Everything about you is soft, the warmth of life fading quickly beneath his fingers and rendering you terribly fragile, and he retracts his hand for fear of his touch giving bloom to more marks along your flesh. 

Glancing around the cliff face, he looks for signs of wood, other bodies, ripped sails or bent iron, but finds nothing. No signs of shipwreck, no signs of a waiting party to receive you. You are alone in this torment, rejected by land and sea, and forced to exist within the limbo of life and death. 

Before he can stop himself, he lifts you to his chest, cradling you close as he rises to a stand. If you were awake, you would be shivering, would tremble in the chill that means to overtake your very bones, and he hurries as best he can back to his boat and the woolen blankets he keeps in case of cold summer rains. Moving quickly over the shore, he stumbles slightly, feet tripping over themselves in surprise as he feels you burrow into him, seeking warmth with a low moan, and brow furrowed in what he hopes is simply the effort of healing. 

Finally aboard once more, he takes you into the small cabin beneath the helm and tucks you into the straw bed he keeps for nights when the winds are threatening and violent, remaining on the boat in case the waves should do their best to reclaim the wood. Draping several blankets over you, he crawls close enough the heat from his chest could radiate into your skin, encouraging a rush of blood in your veins. His fingers twitch, wanting to brush stray strands of hair out of your eyes, but he presses the flat of his hand into the bed, resisting his urges. 

The medic will need to be informed. This realization hits him with a bitterness that speaks of separation, chest restricting and tightening against the air in his lungs until it hurts to breathe. Against his bones, his muscles battle the urge to hold you close and he shuts his eyes with a grimace as a headache blooms at the base of his skull. Yet, as he strains to focus in the quiet of the cabin, he is acutely aware there are no traces of your breath, no labored wheeze no even inhalation, and so he resolutely declares that he will ferry your oxygen, coming to sit up on his knees as he plugs your nose and presses his lips to yours, opening them slightly. 

Cradling your chin between his thumb and forefinger, Jaebeom exhales deeply, letting the strength of his breath travel into the limit of your lungs. Squeezing his eyes closed, he exhales for as long as he can manage, giving everything within himself to you before, all at once and all over again, he feels as though he has stepped out of himself. 

Once more, voices materialize at the back of his mind, these new sounds more like echoes that erupt from nowhere and no when, fingerprints of a bygone era carried to him on wings. Their words are a garbled mess of sounds, undeterminable cadences lacking diction or emphasis, but he hears the sound of a man, low and gentle and wondrously tender.

He hears a man, and the man is unmistakably, unfailingly, him. 

Opening his eyes, he drinks you in, and surrenders to the notion he is being conquered by the mere sight of you. One word from you, and it would be as violent as a new beginning, a great shattering of all the comforts he knows of the world. And he would welcome it, knows, as if by magic, that he has given over to it before, would give over to it again, the power in you so great only ritual could contain it.

Blinking several times to clear the shock from his mind, he quickly moves his hands to your chest and presses against your sternum in the rhythmic way his sister taught him when he announced he wanted to be a fisherman, just like their father. Her eyes had glazed over then with the memory of loss and strife, and so she laid him on the floor and promptly taught him how to save a life should the sea threaten to claim a man as her own. The muscles in his harms strains as he continues pressing, and he thinks maybe he will need to press his lips to yours once more, bracing, instinctively, for more voices to fill his head, but a rush of water bursts from between your lips and he quickly moves back, turning you to your side to let it drain completely.

Falling back on your side, you release a cough but you do not wake, the small puddle of water between you both at once threatening and sacred, a reminder that everything Jaebeom has seen and felt is real, tethered to this moment. Tethered to you. 

‘Who are you?’ he murmurs, but even as he says it, even as the words leave his mouth, he knows this is not the right question. 

In the oncoming silence, the correct words swell on his tongue, nearly tumble from his lips, but, instead, he chews the inside of his cheek, aware that the right question will insight a riot in him he is unprepared to endure. 

~~~~~~

When Jaebeom carries you into his home, he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, overtaken by the staggering weight of deja-vu. 

He’s been in this position before, holding you against him in the center of his small kitchen as the elasticity of his emotions stretches outward for an eternity. There is an awakening occurring at the very center of his soul, bursting like a new star as its white heat slithers down his spine. Glancing down at you, your soft lips, your closed eyes, and your limp frame, held so closely to him, he feels the earth move beneath his feet, the shifting tectonics of his life all leading to this single moment. 

Shaking his head, he releases himself from this, moving to his bedroom with focused steps as he places you in his bed. Igniting the oil lamps, he works quickly to bathe you in warm light, covering you with his down comforter before moving to the furnace tucked in the corner of the room. In summer, he keeps little coal and kindling but he uses the last of the brush wood he’s saved from the recent winter to ignite a small fire that burns red and gold behind the latched closing.

He regards your still form with a frown, running a hand through his hair in distress and grits his teeth. The last several days have been almost unbearably hot, but it seems August’s heatwave has been broken by the cool wind of the day, the overall gloom breaking the humidity and blocking the sun from her usual path. Of all days, it pains him that this would be the day the sea released you from her clutches, sent you from the cold depths of her darkness back to the shore where the sun refused to keep you. 

From his kitchen, he takes a small linen cloth, inspecting it for cleanliness, and folds it into a long rectangle. Warming it in front of the furnace, he rotates it in circles before he feels it is sufficiently heated, just enough to ease tension in your muscles and restore heat where you need it most. It warms his hands, palms already swollen and grown clammy, room becoming relatively stuffy as he slides the cloth beneath your neck while you sleep. Already, a pink flush has begun to settle within your cheeks, the relief in him not unlike a rapture.

What will you say when you wake, he wonders. How will you sound when you look him in the eye, unsure of where you are? More importantly, he worries if you will wake at all, if perhaps the rush of blood beneath your skin is the last tour it will take before it stills altogether, heart too sluggish to keep a steady flow. The thought sends a tremor of heartbreak into the base of his spine, and a pained gasp tumbles through his lips, scorning the very notion of the thought. 

He needs an occupation to distract, needs a purpose to feel as though there is progress being made, and so he turns on his heel and grabs his coat, supposing that when you do wake, he should at least be ready.

The walk to his sister’s cottage is not long, one that he usually relishes in the spring when the path is lined with blossom trees and the foxes play around their dens, their ruddy tails bouncing amongst the high grasses. Today, his strides are long but the journey feels endless, the path reaching well beyond the limits of the land, his mind thinking only of arrival rather than enjoying the view. 

Another group of missionaries passes him along the dirt road, and he crosses to the other side to give himself space, freedom, liberation from their watchful eyes. Offering them sidelong glances, he studies the way they regard him conspicuously, whispering to one another as though he cannot hear the faint sounds of their voices, the conviction of their stares a judgement he feels with all of his body. Do they somehow know that he has found and kept a woman? Have they heard the voices too, the echoes he is resurrecting just by being near you? 

He finds he cares little for the answers to these questions, deeming their existence as something infinitely less important or significant in the light of resolute purpose. 

Byeol answers the door after three hard knocks, her face a picture of confusion that still does nothing to mar her beauty. She stands just shy of his height, one hand on the door and the other on her hip, the laugh lines along her cheeks carrying a secret smile within them. 

‘Jaebie,’ she announces, more a question than a statement. Arching a single brow, her brown eyes bore into his with the chastising admonishment only an older sibling could manage. ‘Shouldn’t you be fishing?’

Jaebeom nods, a noncommittal gesture of affirmation, and presses his way through the doorway, past her slight frame. He wastes no time slipping off his boots as he fumbles for an explanation. 

‘Sorry for the unexpected arrival,’ he mumbles, only partially apologetic. ‘Something’s…’ his voice drifts away, eyes looking everywhere but her face as he searches for the right words. To tell the truth means he must tell the whole truth, unable to hide anything from her, and so he settles for one single, vague word. ‘Happened,’ he says, finally.

Immediately, he regrets it.

Byeol’s eyes widen, hands raising to gently cup his face in her palms. Satisfied he is whole, they run down his shoulders to his arms, searching. ‘Are you hurt?’

‘No, no.’ He pulls himself from her grasp, hands raised in surrender, offering her a sheepish smile of amiable regret. ‘Nothing like that. I, uh, need to borrow some of your clothes.’

She takes a single step back, brow knit together in bewilderment. A myriad of emotions pass over her face, and Jaebeom does his best to count them all, the youth of her features rising and falling between her fear, her amusement, her apprehension. Eventually, she settles on curiosity as her eyes rake him up and down, one hand resting on her chest, perplexed yet surprised.

Rolling his eyes, he turns away from her and moves through her home, heading towards the wooden staircase. ‘They’re not for me.’

Byeol follows close behind, hot on his heels. ‘You’re telling me you…’

There’s too much excitement in her voice, the sound and volume of it making him close his eyes as if bracing for a storm. In one fluid motion, she rounds in front of him to block his path, eyes wide in delight as she makes an inappropriate gesture with her hands. 

‘No!’ he scolds, though he finds he must swallow the early threads of a laugh. ‘Not that either.’

Resting his hands on her shoulders, he feels a slight flush creep into his cheeks as she giggles in childish glee. Gently easing her to the side, he continues up the stairs with heavy thuds of his feet. It always amazes him how easily, and how quickly, Byeol can manipulate the atmosphere in the room, her energy always barely contained and always terribly infectious. Questions are burning at the back of her throat, and she follows closely behind, the bounce in her step echoing around the house behind him. 

Just like their mother, she will not let this go until she is satisfied, will not let him leave until she has received at least one answer, and so he releases a silent sigh as he reaches the landing, turning down the hall towards her room. He should be commended, he thinks, for the bravery he must assume to endure her interrogation.

‘There’s a woman -’ he begins slowly, only to be cut off.

‘You bastard!’ she exclaims delightedly, slapping his shoulder blade with enough force to make him stumble. 

She takes his slight hesitation as an opportunity to run ahead of his once more, the glee in her eyes wild and bright, a look he once found vindictive in their youth. Spreading her arms wide, she presses her hands into the frames of her bedroom doorway, full of impish joy as she stares him down. The love he feels for her blurs together with his frustration, the affection in him rising like a tide.

‘Would you stop?’ he pleads, though now he does not bother to stop his laugh. ‘I just need some stays. A chemise and some trousers, too, if you have them.’ 

Standing to her full height, she raises her head elegantly, full of self-importance and authority, swallowing her smile for a serious expression of warning. ‘You can borrow them on the grounds that you give me her name.’

Exasperated, he looks away, letting his gaze move to the side and into the small rectangle that is Sun Hee’s room. It’s messy, the bed unmade and several books piled onto their mother’s antique rocking chair. Atop the books, her stuffed crochet kitten rests, presiding over the chaos like a queen. Along the walls, sepia portraits of his mother and father hang beside cross-stitch pieces his sister did while pregnant: one a rabbit, another a bundle of wild flowers, one a vestige of the sea. In the center of the wall, above her small wrought iron bed, a portrait of her father is framed and hung, the frame a silver gilded edge that catches all the light, even when the clouds threaten to block the sun.

When he looks once more at his sister, he sees how his silence and avoidance has riled her further, her wry grin returned once more with all its damning inquisitiveness.

‘Do I know her?’ she presses, narrowing her eyes.

He shakes his head, and offers a small shrug of his shoulders. ‘No,’ he explains, ‘I actually don’t know it.’

Jaw dropping, she reaches forward once more and slaps his arm. ‘Jaebie!’

Dropping his head, he presses his fingers into his eyes and wishes, with all of him, that her assumptions of his perpetual loneliness and solitude were not such a concern. Wishes, more than anything in this moment, that Sun Hee did not frequently ask for an auntie to play with, her lack of a father rendering her wishes for a sibling obsolete. For any other man on Indolon, a woman in his home, let alone his bed, would hardly be news, would hardly warrant any discussion at all, but Byeol has watched him try, and fail, over the years to find a woman who loves as ardently, as openly, as intensely as he does. 

She has watched him resort to his life by the sea, watched him spend days alone on his boat, returning at sunset and smelling of brine and salt. All her life she has watched and she has worried, alluding to the full weight of her concern only in jest.

‘Can I please just have them?’ he groans weakly.

Lowering her arms from the doorway, she steps to the side and welcomes him through. ‘Yes,’ she acquiesces. ‘Take what you need from the closet, but this isn’t over. And be quick, I’m on my way out.’

Jaebeom tosses her a silent expression of gratitude over his shoulder, moving through her room with quick steps. ‘Where are you going?’ he asks, sliding open her wardrobe and taking things he knows she keeps but does not often wear, certain she will not miss them. ‘Isn’t Sun-hee already at school.’

Byeol moves behind him, gathering her headscarf from atop her bed and tying it with a hum of confirmation. ‘I’m going to Mala Green’s. Her husband’s ship was meant to port two days ago. It never made it.’ 

Jaebeom stills, clothes draped haphazardly over his arm as he turns to greet her eyes. Together, they regard one another in silence, a cold chill seeming to overtake the room. He remembers the look he sees in her eyes now, remembers the bone deep anxiety and the way she did not sleep for weeks, not even months. In a single moment, it is four years ago and they are both bereft.

‘The Pyxis?’ he murmurs, remembering how he and his sister and his niece, and all the town had watched it sail away from port eight months ago, waving until it disappeared from the horizon. 

She nods minutely, a small motion almost imperceptible had he not been watching her intently, looking down at her hands where she nervously picks at her fingernails. ‘She is thinking the worst.’ 

Dropping the clothes to the bed, Jaebeom takes a few strides and comes to stand before his sister. Letting his hands rest on her shoulders, his thumbs press idle, reassuring circles into her muscles, hoping his expression looks hopeful, at least. ‘It could just be delayed.’

Taking in a shaking breath, Byeol nods but does not lift her eyes to his, gaze trained instead on the unsteady motions of her hands.‘We always like to think that, but…’ Falling quiet, she glances towards her vanity, a distant expression of longing painting her features. He knows she is looking at her wedding photo, but he does not mention it. ‘A woman always knows, doesn’t she?’ she finishes, finally looking at him with an empty smile.

And just like that, in the length of the shallow stretch of her lips, they fall back in time to Port Vela. She clutched his hand as the Aquila departed, the strength in her grip enough to turn both their knuckles white. The intensity of this touching reminded him that to love is to open the heart to grieving, that to love means to welcome the notion of losing, and so he pressed his fingers against hers with the same force, joining her in solidarity. 

Even before the missionaries declared him dead, she knew he was lost. The tears she shed in childbirth were not those of bodily trauma but those of heartbreak, once more holding his hand and begging for him to tell her why Dong Hyun wasn’t there with her, why the missionaries were forcing her to believe he was still alive. She said it hurt to know they were teasing with the heart of a widow, that moment perhaps the last time he ever feigned trust in the gods and their mortal vessels. 

Dong Hyun had left to deliver a group of missionaries from a nearby port, and they were angry for weeks at their failed return, citing a growing population that needed more help. Jaebeom never knew why they didn’t come to the funeral, his sister and his newborn niece crying in unison against an empty coffin while he pressed his feet into the wet grass. He wanted them to see what their selfishness had done, the rage in him putting a sheen of sweat on his neck, the most angry he had ever been. 

‘He’ll be okay,’ he states, pulling them both out of the darkness of their thoughts. ‘They will all be okay.’

It’s a nice thing to say, he thinks, something that sounds reassuring and optimistic, but he wonders, quietly in the back of his mind, to whom he is offering this confidence.

Byeol startles slightly, eyes glassy and slightly glazed over with memory as she takes him in. ‘Yes, well,’ she begins, stepping out his hold to gather her things. ‘It will be good to be there for her.’

Jaebeom watches her move towards the door, hands balled into fists and pressing his nails into his palms. It’s more visceral now, somehow more tangible than ever, the unease he feels when he thinks about their blue cloaks - their endless, royal blue. 

‘Launder those when you’re done please,’ she says, coming to a halt and pointing her long index finger at the clothes piled on the bed. ‘I don’t want to be wearing any of your remains -’

Jaebeom’s eyes widen, the spell of his thoughts broken by Byeol’s teasing giggle. ‘Byeol!’

She simply steps into the hallway and moves down the stairs, her laughter carrying through the house as though the sadness had never been let in. 

~~~~~

_It was only when you said you were leaving, announcing the date of your expected departure with wild eyes and ink stained hands, that he thought maybe, horribly, he had not told you he loved you enough._

_You showed him the boarding papers, the crew notes, the bonds list and you were laughing, disbelieving that good fortune could shine on the persistent. Years of work had culminated in this opportunity, and you could not tear your eyes away from the King’s signature, it’s black script so formal you pressed your fingers to your lips to hide the ferocity of your smile. He loved you most then, burning in silence and struggling to find the right way, the best way, to tell you that his love for you demanded he become monstrous, too many hearts in his chest to contain the totality of this wanting._

_‘It will be the longest we’ve ever been apart,’ you said, chancing a look at him, and the briefest flickers of grief walked across your face. In an instant, you tucked them away, smoothed your smile over and put the light back in your eyes, hiding from him the very thing that could bring him to his knees._

_‘I’ll send a hawk to woo you,’ he offered, the smile tugging at his lips only half genuine, only half true._

_He was certain you knew it, too, but you simply chuckled, arched one perfect brow and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth._

_‘You’ve already done that.’_

_He only had a week to show you that he loved you beyond reason, beyond the human capacity for emotion. One week, and you would be gone, drifting away from him at sea, and he would be waiting, always waiting._

_‘Then I’ll do it again.’_

_Again and again he would do his best to win you over, holding you tightly against his chest and reminding you there was nowhere as safe, nowhere as sacred as against his skin, against his heart. You leaned up to kiss him, always eager and impatient for the things you wanted most, but he breathed against your lips, let your twin exhales unify your heartbeats and reminded himself that you were still here._

_He could feel you. You were still there._

Jaebeom wakes with a start, hairline dampened with warmth, stress, and confusion. 

The dawn breaks through the sheer curtains of his bedroom window, the heat in the room oppressive and stifling as the embers within the furnace strain to match the gleam of the sun. Curled in a ball atop the lambskin carpet at the foot of his bed, the joints of his knees and elbows are aching, having been forced into one position too long. Tentatively, he stretches his limbs with a low groan, elongating his back against the floor and does his best to remain quiet in his relief. 

When he’d returned home, you were still sleeping. Unchanged and in the exact position he had left you, a brief anxiety overtook him at the sight of your too relaxed face and the weakness in your limbs. There was a fragility in you that frightened him, a treacherous sort of quiet that promised great annihilation consuming the room and reaching down, deep within his ribs, compressing his lungs. He would have shed tears for you, would have unleashed an expression of grief so holy and so silent it would have broken worlds - but you moaned, almost regal in your suffering, and, for a moment, he was weightless.

In the tense tranquility that followed he slumped into the reading chair beside his bookcase, head buried in his hands, and sighed. With his eyes closed, he could pretend things had not changed, that he was still himself, that he still _belonged_ to himself. It was as though there were two of him, battling within his blood - the one that knew nothing, that craved the assurance and predictable simplicity inherent in the life he had built for himself. 

But the other is violent, a torrent against his bones reminding him this life is not his, that you are his life, and the passion in him is pushed into madness at the notion of not being able to follow where you have gone.

‘All this?’ he lamented into the rough skin of his palm. ‘All this over the desire to be loved?’

The moon was midway through its journey across the sky when he fell asleep, nestling into the rug at the foot of your bed - at your feet, though still giving you the distance, giving himself the distance. And all night he had seen you, felt you, let his whole world become enamored with you.

Pressing the base of his palms into his eyes, he groans, letting the dark become coloured with reds, whites, and purples under the pressure. Rustling from somewhere in the room makes his heart stutter in its rhythm, motions still and muscles tense with the effort of not moving, simply listening. His is not the only breath in the room, and when he takes his hands away from his eyes, his vision adjusts to see you - your face framed by your hair as you lean over the bed, regarding him curiously. 

Startled, Jaebeom sits up, head dizzy with the sudden movement, and he presses a hand to his temple though he does not close his eyes, fearing he might still be dreaming. A dark night lives in your irises, hungry for everything that comprises his very being, and even as he lets his vision focus, lets himself recline into the intensity of your stare, he feels as though you are burning inside him, tearing your way through his sinew, the most voracious thing he’s ever seen. You regard him, unblinking, studying every detail and nuance of his features with tension in your brow and parted lips. 

Briefly, he wonders how long it has been since someone looked at him like this, looked at him as though he is both the universe’s greatest secret and its most coveted answer.

‘You’re awake,’ he manages, throat dry and voice constricting beneath such coveted attention.

Instantly, he curses himself for such a simple and obvious statement. All night he had imagined hundreds of first conversations with you, knowing his first words with you would ultimately be the most important, and already he has betrayed himself. You’ve taken all the power from him, left him in such a state of shock, he supposes his words have withered, nothing in the world as sacred as your eyes on him. 

But the smile you offer him at the sound of his voice could combat the sun, the world brightening around the fullness of your cheeks and the pleasure you keep at the corner of your lips, like a secret. A blush burns at the tips of his ears, and he is glad it does not immediately live in his cheeks, pleased he has learned, somehow, to not give himself away all at once. 

‘I am,’ you nod in affirmation. A chill walks down Jaebeom’s spine, the sound of your voice an echo of his dreams, exactly as he heard it all night long. ‘You found me.’

Seconds stretch between your bodies, an infinite eternity between your last syllable and his first breath, his eyes on yours like a pledge of loyalty. 

‘Were you looking for me?’

Hope invades his words without his permission, helpless against their desire to be the thing you sought most, to be lucky enough to be your prize. His fingers press into the soft strands of the carpet beneath him, and he watches as you fall back against your legs, shoulders slumped as you look around the room. All at once, emptiness overtakes you, the light in your eyes dimming as you search within yourself for an answer.

‘I don’t know,’ is your whispered reply. Looking at him once more, he feels as though you are rooting within his soul, continuing the expedition within him. But still, you are lost, voice adrift and lost at sea. ‘I can’t remember.’

He smiles encouragingly, wanting you to know, more than anything, that it is okay. For himself, he reminds you both that everything is okay.

Inching along the carpet, he clears his throat as he rests his arms on the bed, gazing up at you as though he is making wishes on the moon. He wants to be close to you - more than he’s ever wanted anything, Jaebeom wants to be in your orbit, close enough he could taste the salt that still lingers on your skin. Biting his tongue, he swallows all his rushed, messy emotions and clears his throat, choosing instead the words of logic, the words of practicality. 

‘What is your name?’

Little by little, your smile slowly fades, burned by this simple question. Still, you remain calm, perplexed and unsure of how much of you has truly been misplaced. ‘I don’t know.’

‘That’s okay,’ he reassures you gently. ‘My name is Jaebeom.’ In saying his name, he waits for a flicker of recognition, a response that would confirm all he has spent the night feeling, but you simply regard him blankly, glad for the conversation. Shaking his head, he sighs. ‘How did you get here?’ he tries, keeping his voice calm so you find no reason to panic or run.

Now, your smile disappears completely and all that is left behind is you, your sadness, and the way it clings to your body like a shadow. The smallness of you in this moment puts an ache in his chest that feels like an inheritance - something he has been owed, that you owed one another having vanished in the completeness of your unknowing, and, together, you grieve. With a slow shake of your head, you confirm there is a void surrounding the nature of your being and the reason for your arrival, and the longer he looks the more he sees how this torments the deep desire that quakes inside you.

He knows nothing of you, knows only that you are here and you are tangible and you are emptied, but still he can sense you are a wild, impossible beast of a woman. The storm in you could tear the world asunder, and so he tries a different tactic, choosing to ask what is felt rather than what can be recalled, wanting to hold onto as much of you as he possibly can.

‘Are you hurt?’

For a long moment, you consider his question, as if thinking through the concept of hurt, the very notion of it, rather than the truth of it. Running his eyes over your frame, he notices that some bruises on your arms have already faded, as if the midnight sky was your healer. You are far healthier and far more whole than the person he found yesterday, but there is a strangeness to the way you look at him, to the way you think through his questions that gives him the passing sensation that you are not there at all.

He fears, all the way down to his marrow, that if he were to look away, you would disappear completely.

‘It does hurt, yes,’ you admit finally. Offering him a small nod of confirmation, your eyes grow wide as though you yourself are surprised by the experience, the ability to truly _hurt_ a clandestine experience.

Jaebeom had feared this. Always, the most lethal of wounds are the ones not worn on the skin. ‘Where?’

Slowly, you lift a hand to your chest, right above your heart. Pain etches itself on your face, the turmoil of bewilderment and confusion, the misery of things long lost, making a home of your soft features. He watches your brow knit together as you regard him, a slight downturned frown tugging at your lips as you silently beg him for answers. 

Reaching a hand forward, his fingertips nearly graze the smooth skin of your knee, exposed between the ripped threads of your silk dress. When he’s close enough he can feel the warmth from your skin, he remembers himself, retreating back to curl his hand into a fist.

‘Did a man hurt you?’ 

He hates the way the words taste, sour and acrid on his tongue, but he supposes this dress is your wedding gown and he’s seen more than his fair share of broken hearts around town. This, of course, would be the worst he has ever seen, but he chooses not to worry you further, keeping his voice soothing and calm.

‘No,’ you shake your head, looking beyond him into a distance that is both contained within and expanding outward. ‘Not one,’ you continue with a dark whisper. ‘Many.’

Jaebeom does not think himself a man prone to violence or aggression but, in a single moment, he feels his heart is a weapon. His spine straightens as he rears back slowly, relying entirely on the support of the floor beneath him. His hands are no longer his own, knuckles taught with the desire to tear his way through flesh and sinew. There is no limit to the monstrous creatures he would face standing up for you; he’s burning, fully ablaze alongside you, and it surprises him how quickly kindness can burn away.

‘We can report it when you are well enough,’ he announces, clearing his throat in the effort of remembering himself. As much as he would go to battle for you, he similarly does not want to frighten you. ‘When you remember the details we can report it. They won’t get away with it.’

Shoulders relaxing, your hand falls away from your chest as you find comfort in his words, and a small sense of pride prickles at his ears and neck. With anyone else, he’d be sheepish that he is giving himself and his emotions away so quickly with you, but he can’t help it, he thinks. Not when you look at him like this, like he’s the part of summer you’ve been anticipating most and are pleased by the mere sight of him. People don’t look at him like this, especially the people he wishes would look at him and want to continue the mere act of seeing him. You make him feel like _someone_ , and he is more with you than he ever has been on his own. 

Keeping your eyes on his, you shift so you rest on your hands and knees, crawling across the bed towards him. Jaebeom leans back, pushes himself away from the bed and it is only when the heat from the still burning furnace threatens to sear his chemise that he pauses, looking over his shoulder to pout at the proximity. Your hand presses against his foot, stopping his movements and he returns his focus to you once more, all breath and blood flow halted in his veins. 

You’ve climbed off the bed, settled on the floor with your hand on him and a glimmer behind your eyes that says you know he has longed to be touched. Has he been real before this moment? Has he truly existed until the moment you placed your hand on his skin, a paradoxically cold warmth that sends a chill up his legs and into his groin. Until this moment, he has been afflicted with the strangest sense of object permanence, but only of himself - himself and his relation to you, the only thing that has ever truly mattered.

‘You won’t come close to me,’ you explain, sounding terribly sad.

Deflating, he leans forward and places his hand on yours, finally, running his thumb along your knuckles. The salt from the sea has turned your skin into the softest thing he’s ever touched, and he applies just enough pressure to remind himself you are tangible, real, present. 

There’s something familiar and, simultaneously, ephemeral about the way his hand moves over yours. He finds it impossible to look away as he explains, ‘I wanted to give you space.’

‘I’ve had enough,’ you counter, and the sharpness in your words has him taking in your lips, your cheeks, your face in wonder. You are every bit the tempest he knew you would be, and he smiles, amused and gladdened by your confident vehemence. 

Pulling your hand out from under his, you raise it to the side of his face, tucking strands of hair behind his ear and letting your fingers glide along his cheekbone. The intimacy leads him, momentarily, to believe that he is completely naked, exposed to you in all the ways that could truly break him. Once more, he feels you searching within him for something you can almost grasp. Words live and die on his tongue, answers he too craves fading before he has the chance to truly process them.

You are unified in this complex looking, the act of remembering both a mysterious and a fact.

‘You’re familiar to me.’ Cocking your head to the side as you speak, the childlike curiosity you exude has him pressing his hands into the carpet, reminding himself it is still too early to take hold of you, too early to hold you against his heart as he had done in his dream.

‘Have we met before?’ he offers gently.

Excitement colours you, has you straightening as you pull your hand from his skin. ‘Do you know me?’

It’s his turn to shake his head, his turn to smother hope with little disappointments. ‘No.’

‘Then I suppose not.’ 

With a slight shrug, you return your hand once more to the side of his face, palm cupping his cheek to trace the contour of the bone. Little by little, your eyes soften and a silent yearning overtakes your features. Jaebeom wants to tell you everything when you look at him like that. Things he’d never breathe to another person, things he had long since forgotten rise up in his throat and he nearly chokes on them, wanting you to have absolutely everything.

Running your thumb over his bottom lip, a blissful sigh escapes from the center of your chest, eyes slightly glazed as you luxuriate in the texture of his skin beneath your finger. ‘I don’t mind, though. I like looking at you.’ 

How like a child he feels when he is with you - suddenly restless and impatient and _young_ , the boundaries and the calculated logic he has spent years cultivating in his adulthood dissolving the moment he learns you are pleased with him. In his dream, he somehow knew your kisses were a hurricane, all raindrops and wild winds that made his skin feel electric. The way you seem to tear through him now is a confirmation he was correct, the summer in you so immaculate he thinks it is always the bloom of July in your soul.

Were he to look elsewhere in the room, he is certain it would be a betrayal - the treachery of looking away from the gods’ sky. Jaebeom is calmed by the sight of you, the anxious itch in the back of his mind dormant simply because you have decided he is worthy of being adored. He wonders where he has been looking all this time, if he has truly seen anything at all until this moment, the colours of the world infinitely more rich because of how you choose to wear them. 

Clearing his throat, he looks briefly at your hand where it holds his foot like a cross and trembles. ‘I like looking at you, too.’ It feels so silly and unimpressive, repeating your words back like a parrot, but he means it - there is more conviction in those small words than any other promise he has ever made and, when he looks at you again, he hopes you can feel it.

Your answering smile is so rich and full, he finds his thoughts are rendered unintelligible, and so he lowers his gaze to the ripped dress that does its best to maintain the echo of its former shape. 

Clearing his throat, he slowly pulls his foot out from your grip, skin tingling from the loss of contact. The warmth from your hand still lingers, and he frowns, regretting his decision even through his commitment to the choice. Pressing his hands to the floor, he rises to stand and brushes off his trousers, looking for ways to keep his hands busy.

‘Can you stand?’ You look up at him, expectant and congenial. ‘Are your legs strong enough?’

Copying his earlier movements, you press your hands into the floor and, unsteadily, lift yourself to a stand. For a moment your knees wobble, but you keep your eyes on his, shoulders rolling back as you take in a slow inhale. Finding your balance takes focus, brow knotted together with the effort of standing on weakened muscles, but you keep your feet planted, hands spread at your sides to aid in maintaining your center of gravity. And when you stand, stable and sure, at your full height, you nod proudly, delighted you have surprised yourself.

‘Good.’ The most natural thing in the world, he finds, is praising you; a long dormant habit awakening once more ‘I’m actually not sure what I’d done if you couldn’t,’ he admits sheepishly.

Amidst your infectious giggle, Jaebeom finally has an opportunity to truly take in the state of your clothes. He wonders what torment you have seen, what hell you’ve walked through that has torn the silk and chiffon down to the essence of their threads. The bodice hugs your waist, but the whalebone corset is torn at the ribs, threatening to expose your skin. There will be no saving the sleeves that hang limply off your shoulders, falling behind your back like a ragged cape. Sea water has stained the silk to a tarnished, bleak yellow, the sand of the seabed nestled deep within the folds of your skirts. 

Still, too much of your skin is visible to him. The skirts have pulled away from the bodice and a large portion of your thigh remains bare, the other leg free of clothing from the ankle to just above your knee. Standing before him, he sees you as a survivor of a slaughter that bore no claws, and he aches to pull you close, to keep you safe, to remind you that you are whole.

Perhaps, he thinks, the reminder is mostly for himself.

‘I brought you some clothes,’ he announces gently. Gesturing vaguely to the wardrobe in the opposite corner, his nerves get the better of him, words becoming bashful. ‘You look like the size of my sister, so they should fit.’ Running a hand through his hair and gripping the strands to alleviate the tension in his wrists, he pulls himself out of your orbit and heads toward the wardrobe. ‘We need to go into town anyway to see the medic, so I can get you some if these don’t fit properly. I just…’ 

Opening the doors, he pulls out the clothes he borrowed from his sister- stays for night time, two pairs of trousers, a woolen skirt he remembers buying for his sister one solstice that she has never worn, and three chemises he hopes will fit you. He lays them out delicately on the bed, arranging them into outfits he hopes you find comfortable. Fixating on the trousers, he looks at them too long as his stomach drops. Indolon is one of the few islands where women wear trousers, their propensity for skirts just as enthusiastic and common. He hops the sight of them will not offend you.

‘Thank you.’ Approaching the bed with light, careful steps, the smallness of your voice does little to mask your immense gratitude, hands coming to graze the myriad of fabrics he has selected. 

Something about the feel of them between your fingers astounds you, a stunned silence turning adding a weight to the room that did not previously exist. 

‘These are beautiful.’ Your hand moves to the skirt, the difference in its texture putting a glee in your eyes that makes his heart swell. ‘Thank you for caring for me,’ you finish, finally looking up at him once more.

Time bleeds past him as he falls into you, falls beyond himself and into a love that consumes him. Around your body, light seems to vibrate, uncertain how to hold you and so it holds all of you, and none of you, at once, bending around your back until he wonders if the very nature of this conversation is merely an illusion. Should he look away, he worries you would vanish, that he might forget, and so he steps near enough that he might touch you. 

Keeping his hands forced at his sides, he drowns momentarily in his wanting before he speaks. ‘Anyone would do it.’

Lowering the skirt, you reach up to cup his face, forcing him to look at you. A shiver walks down his spine, followed swiftly by an unfamiliar heat in his blood as you speak. ‘I don’t remember much of the world, but I do remember that is not true. Not everyone would do as you have done.’ You lean into him, close enough your breaths touch between your bodies, his entire existence narrowing to this single moment. ‘I’m grateful for you.’ 

All of him craves giving in to the boundless lust that rages within his chest, memories of his dream resurfacing to haunt his bones. There were other memories within that dream, memories of your body wrapped beneath his, memories of your lips and the way you always pressed hard against his mouth, ensuring he would feel you long after you had departed. Jaebeom wants to live in those memories now, wants to force them into his reality so badly his hands and his sides start to shake.

But in those memories, lives the texture of your skin and the way his fingers have mapped every node of your spine. And it is only when he recalls the distant blur of this experience, so foreign to him it is as though it belongs to someone else, that he remembers there is nowhere in his home for you to undress.

When he had selected this house by the sea, he had assumed his life would contain the dawn, the dusk, the ocean, and little else in between. His home is merely one large square, the kitchen bleeding into his open bedroom and the sitting area tucked into corners he felt would be comfortable. There is, fundamentally, no element of privacy, and this is the only thing, he thinks, that gives him the strength to pull away - the desire to keep you comfortable and to be polite his only saving grace.

‘Sorry,’ he mumbles, taking one small step back. It is enough for his head to become clear, enough for the sadness in your eyes at the separation to not sting like a bullet. ‘I can leave you to change.’ 

He moves around you, not really certain what he would say should you inform him you will need assistance with your bodice and corset. They are torn enough and ruined enough he imagines they will not be a problem, but the mere idea of his fingers accidentally caressing the smooth expanse of your back puts a tightness in his chest the magnitude of which has him both frightened and bewildered. 

Jaebeom does not want people like this, certainly does not want them this badly and with this much conviction, and so he walks through the bedroom and into the kitchen, the cool metal of the doorknob a balm against his skin. And it is only when he is outside, eyes closed as he lets the breeze overtake his heart, his spirit, his soul, does he feel like himself once more.

It is only when he is in an entirely different location, far enough away from you he cannot feel you, that he remembers to breathe.

~~~~~

The walk to town, by your side, is among the most eventful experiences of his life. 

Having roamed the island roads all his life, he has grown used to the view, the unchanging scenery resulting in him finding it to be rather dull and grey. He cannot remember the last time he saw this world with fresh eyes, the last time he took in the trees, the slope of the land and felt joy - the last time this world brought him pleasure. You however, combat the very essence of his ennui with your inherent enthusiasm, taking in every sight and every sound as if it is, not the first time you have witnessed them but, the first time you have reunited with them after many years away. 

In you, a language of reconciliation is being cultivated - one that only you will be able to understand, and one that makes Jaebeom cast you curious side long glances as you press your hands together in consternation. Your scrutiny of each detail slows the walk considerably, your presence somewhat distant and hollow as you struggle to define the essence of familiarity within you. Each time, it fades miserably and quickly, leaving you momentarily disheartened only for new wonder to replace the frustration once more. 

Through you, he begins to see the town as something eternal, something so long lasting and sacred that, even if it is forgotten, it is still unchanged and important enough to be missed. Selfishly, he ponders what place he held in your old life, if he held any place at all, aware that, sometimes, you look at him with this same questioning fixation. In his own life experiences, you appear missing, but the way you look at him and touch him assures a small, needy piece of his heart that he is remembered, and therefore not ephemeral. 

Still, he is certain you have been here, on Indolon, that this is your home and nowhere else. Having decided to forgo the shoes he had taken from his sister in favor of your bare feet, claiming it felt more natural to feel the earth beneath your toes, your steps are confident as you walk. Your eyes take everything in with too much intensity, but your steps are sure, certain of the placement and used to the cracks and the gravel that line the journey. When you are not focused on a building, a face, a view, you do not follow behind him. Instead, you are perhaps just a hair’s breadth ahead of him, relaxed in your inherent certainty. 

‘Is any of this triggering your memory?’ he quietly tries, hoping he does not completely disrupt your train of thought.

‘Yes, but at the same time no.’ Your lips continue moving even as your voice dies, murmuring mysteriously to yourself as you look around. ‘It’s like I’ve seen this before in a dream, but then anything can look like anything if you want it to badly enough.’ Offering him a sly smirk, you peer up at him through your eyelashes. ‘I still like looking at you the most, though.’

Heat paints pink smears along his cheeks, and he glances down to his feet momentarily to smile at himself, flattered and, helplessly, twitter-patted. With you beside him, so close, his fingers dig into the pockets of his coat, gripping the cloth in the effort of stifling the desire to reach for your hand.

'Thank you,’ he begins, his smile unwilling to fade. Still, he does his best to warp his features into a serious expression. 'I’m glad I’m more interesting than trees and brick.’

The music of your laugh is an eruption, the juicy fullness of it breaking over his tongue and filling his mouth with unprecedented gladness. You are unshy with your laughter, endearingly liberal and letting it echo through the air, demanding everyone hear your pleasure. Jaebeom swallows thickly, feeling almost as though he can taste you on the wind, in his mouth, and he holds his breath wanting to keep you inside him just a moment longer.

'I’m serious,’ you tease, nudging into his side

Passing the field of pink and blue wildflowers, you become transfixed by a group of small children playing amongst the grass. Holding hands, they jump and dance in a circle, their laughter interrupting the song they are singing in broken unison. He recognizes the nursery rhyme of Ciperion immediately, remembering how his sister and some of the older children would make him play this game with them, dancing in a circle until the song ended and they had to remain completely still. Always, one of his sister’s older friends, usually the boy she had a crush on, would play Ciperion, choosing a victim to steal away from the group. Only then would the circle continue dancing over and over until only one player remained and they had to outrun Ciperion to win.

He chuckles at the memory, how petulant he always felt at being the first one out - always, and without fail. Now, he realizes it was merely because of his strong reaction to being taken that made it more entertaining for his sister’s friends, his cries and yells something they would tease him about for days.

‘What are they singing?’ you ask softly, interrupting his thoughts.

Jaebeom hears your voice and looks to his side, finding you are no longer with him. Turning, he finds you have come to a halt alongside the edge of the field, watching the children with a dark fascination that runs a chill down his spine.

He approaches you slowly, looking between the children and you, finding the tether of your fixation to be unbreakable. ‘The song of Ciperion,’ he explains gently. 

When you look at him again, your inquisitive expression is marred by such a sincere sense of aloneness his throat runs dry. Your prying eyes demand more from him, demand explanations and answers, so greedy and so painfully hopeful he wonders what the word wounded in you. 

‘It’s an old urban legend on the island,’ he begins, looking back at the children who have now stilled, a little girl roaming behind the group with her hands raised like claws. ‘Everyone knows it, primarily because we grow up hearing it from friends or parents. It’s really just a ghost story. Parents tell it to make sure their children don’t go too far near the shore if they can’t see them, and kids tell it amongst friends just to see who is the most brave.’

Mystified, you keep your eyes on the group of children. ‘And it’s a song?’ 

He shakes his head, meeting your eyes on the raised arms and laughing faces of the children, hoping this contact of just your twin gazes is a comfort. ‘Not really, no. It’s a story, but it’s so old it’s become a nursery rhyme.’

‘Tell me.’

Jaebeom hums, trying to remember the way his mother told him this story when he was small. ‘Centuries ago, there was a ship called Ciperion that was meant to arrive at Port Vela.’

At the word Ciperion, you bristle, eyes widening slightly, though if in terror or recognition he cannot tell.

‘It was commissioned by the King, back when there were Kings,’ he continues, watching your reactions in the corner of his eye. ‘In those days, it was the fastest ship ever created, and had been assigned one of the largest crews - they called it the jewel of the sea. The crew was composed of experts in every field - cartography, cosmology, anthropology - and the ship’s sole mission was exploration.’

When you finally look at him, the heat from your gaze puts a fire in his veins, the sheer fervor and earnestness of your attention making him shudder. Swallowing thickly, he continues. 

‘Legend says that they reached an island and saw how corrupt the Indolon King had been, how far reaching his power and torment really was.’ In the field, a little boy is taken by a young Ciperion, his scream of surprise mingling with the relieved laughter of the other children. ‘They rushed home to stop him from destroying their land, but the ship never made it. No one knew where the ship had gone, especially because the waters had been calm the night of their intended arrival.’

‘So they all perished?’ Even as the words leave your mouth, your focus turning back to the children, he knows this question is not meant to be answered, a small voice in the back of his mind advising him you already know this answer. Its rhetorical nature is anguished, lost, full of a yearning he presumes no language could ever express.

Coughing to clear his throat, Jaebeom nods knowing you cannot see him, and continues. ‘The lighthouse stayed on for weeks, even on clear nights. But still, Ciperion never came back.’

The silence in you is a sea, and once more he presses his fingers in the fabric of his jacket, warring within himself to keep his hand still. Your own hands look lonely, hanging limply at your sides as though you have been defeated by something much larger, and much more complex, than just your lack of memory. As he studies your changing expression, he counts the emotions that swim over your features - anger, fury, loss, grief, and, strangely, happiness - before you settle on none of these, choosing instead to remain empty. 

But the magnitude of this choice renders you disheartened, tears pooling in your eyes, and he watches you swallow, fighting them back to the depths within your heart.

‘There’s never been any proof that Ciperion was real,’ he offers, hoping this will aid in bringing you comfort. It was never real, he supposes, and so there is no need to mourn the loss of made up things.

Yet, this consolation does not help, only serves to insight frustration, hands at your side curling into small fists as your eyes narrow. 

Looking back at the children, Jaebeom combats the ever creeping flush at his neck and ears with the rest of the story. ‘Some say that every twenty years, on the anniversary of its port date, you can see the ghost ship Ciperion sailing along the horizon, looking for ways to dock. Only if the night is clear, that is.’

‘And if it isn’t?’ you question, a bitterness biting at your words that takes him aback.

‘If it’s cloudy,’ he offers delicately, ‘the fog along the water is so thick it blocks the lighthouse altogether. It moves up from the water onto the shore, looking for ways into houses or into town as if it has a mind of its own. And if it touches land, you can hear screams in the clouds themselves.’

As if they never happened at all, as if, all along, you nothing of this story had touched a bleeding wound within you, the tears in your eyes seem to dissolve. Your hands unfurl from their fists, and a touch of pink warms your cheeks. There is contentedness all over you, and you turn to face, a pleasant smile tugging at your lips.

‘That’s a nice story,’ you say, simply, blinking up at him in genuine interest.

A laugh bursts from his chest, one that comes from nowhere at all and instead is a bark of surprise rather than a logical expression of amusement. Furrowing his brow, he laughs to himself through the fear and the confusion, waiting for your earlier expression of grief to overtake you once more. But when it does not come, when you giggle along with him merely because it is something to share rather than an honest or sincere experience of humor, he silences himself with a low grumble and kicks the stones at his feet.

‘Yes,’ he agrees quietly. ‘It’s just something we grow up hearing, but nothing ever comes of it.’

‘Is it the anniversary, then?’ You smile up at him, seeming happy to be included in a story, happy, too, to be sharing his company, and you press your bare feet into the stones, making little shapes with your toes. ‘They’re singing with so much fervor.’

‘Yeah,’ he hums in confirmation, watching you draw circles into the earth. ‘Actually, I think it’s tomorrow.’

‘And will you look for the ship?’ 

Cocking his head to the side questioningly, he studies your face as he speaks. ‘Would you like to?’

‘Are you asking me?’ you press, tilting your head to the same angle as his. The sight of you makes his breath catch, your beauty always somehow the most arresting, the most bewitching, but watching you mirror his position creates an uncanny sense of unease in his belly. ‘I’m not sure what I would be looking for,’ you finish, uncertainty lacing your tone.

‘I’m not either,’ he laments, furrowing his brow as he takes you in. There are so many things he’d like to say to you, only to you, so many things he’d like to ask, but starting feels painful, complicated, as though he’s attempting to speak a language he does not yet understand, so he swallows, drawing the same circles as you with his shoe. ‘I haven’t gone looking for it since I was a kid.’ Your circles are so clean, while his are oblong, and he is unsure why this matters, but he is excited, fundamentally, that there is so much he can learn from you. ‘The last time it was here, I was eight, and even then we didn’t see anything.’

Nodding in understanding you hum, knitting your brow together in consideration of his words. ‘It would be…fun?’

‘If you want to, we can,’ he chuckles, peering at you through his lashes, still waiting for another response of sadness, of melancholic heartbreak to rise up in you again. The legend of Ciperion stirred something in you, touched pieces of your spirit denying access to all else, and he thinks, perhaps, it is the tragedy of lost life and torn wood that triggers memories of spilled blood. Anyone would weep at the horror of this, and so he clears his throat, remembering true horrors are the ones humanity can touch.

‘But,’ he begins, loud enough the children in the field turn to look at them, worrying their play will be halted before continuing to sing once more, ‘you washed up on the rocks.’ Looking at you fully, he feels his chest tighten, remembering the shredded silk and the way your hair wound over the rocks, latching into deep crevices just to keep you safe. ‘People don’t just come from the sea. If there’s a shipwreck somewhere, we’d have to tell the medic and the council. That’s a more pressing ship to be looking for.’

Biting your lip, your eyes grow distant and glassy as you retreat inward, mind racing towards shadowed images that render your voice small and soft. ‘I don’t remember where I was before this.’

‘Sometimes that can happen with trauma,’ Jaebeom advises, and it strikes him that your admission does not bring despair, only annoyance at your failing memory.

Through all of this, not once have you expressed fear at the notion of death, unafraid for your own mortality even after the very essence of it has been threatened and challenged. It hits him now that the only time you have ever been afraid is when confronted with the notion of others experiencing a fate meant for you. One tale of a shipwreck, and so soon were you unmade into a dark beast, woven together by sorrow. 

Kicking the stones away from his feet, he tilts his head encouragingly, wordlessly advising that you continue alongside him. ‘The medic is one of my old school friends,’ he explains with a small grin, readying for Stefan’s loud laugh and teasing sarcasm. ‘He’ll be able to tell you more once he can run a few tests. You’ll like him. He’s quite funny.’

Walking beside him, there is a bounce to your step. ‘I remember that I like funny people,’ you announce, tossing him a playful smirk. ‘Maybe I will like looking at him as much as I like looking at you.’

Jealousy tightens itself around his ribs, the selfish desire for him to be the only thing that brings you pleasure rising in his throat like bile. It is an entirely new experience for him, the notion of love that one must remember its fragility, the sacredness of a lover’s admiration more divine than the gods. Already, every breath he takes is heavy with you, body and soul hypnotized by your existence, and, in the effort of appearing aloof and affable, he grits his teeth through a humorless laugh.

‘Better not,’ he teases, though the jovial nature of it is almost nonexistent. As soon as he says it, he becomes upset with himself, the statement alone so preposterous and out of his character he shivers to shake the sound of it off his skin.

You, however, do not seem to notice, nudging into his shoulder once more as you continue on the journey.

Jaebeom has not seen the entirety of Isle Indolon, his ability to travel limited by his small income and the availability of everything he needs being centered to the town. However, he has never truly felt the need to explore, their small city of Sunridge Keep the capital of the island and therefore so full and bustling with activity he finds it impossible to muster the desire to leave. Orange red brick buildings decorated with limestone columns line the road, the gravel and dirt of the path turning into smooth cobblestone, warmed by the light of the blazing sun. 

Hissing slightly as your toes touch the warm stones, you pull your foot back in surprise, only to place it back down with careful movements, mind racing once more as you take tentative steps forward. Immediately, your eyes are everywhere, touching everything all at once. You are hungry for absolutely everything, reading names of shops, studying faces of strangers as they pass, watching the florist hand out daffodils from her wicker basket as though nothing has ever been so marvelous. The bread maker offers you a warm sticky bun, and you look instead to the man’s face, not to the pastry held in his large palm, studying him as though his name might arrive on your tongue.

Jaebeom guides you away, offering the vendor a dismissive wave of his hand, only to find your eyes latched onto something else. He grows light headed watching the trajectory of your focus, your wild discontent and ravenous hunger gnawing you into a frenzied state of almost savage inquisitiveness. There is not a single thing your gaze does not touch, and occasionally you stop in front of shop windows to look in, eyes searching ever deeper for something familiar. 

The center of town always smells the sweetest to Jaebeom, and so he leads you in this direction, hoping that the star shaped expanse and its wide angles will ease some of your tension. Childishly, he plans to acquire some roasted chestnuts, certain their candied deliciousness will provide you comfort even if it does not inspire remembrance. The throng of people eases as he approaches town center, the citadel bell chiming the late early hour, and you pause, looking up into the sky in awe. He’d always loved the bell tower - even if he did not trust the missionaries, even if he made himself believe it was deception that lurked behind their irises and not concern, he always appreciated their music. 

Leading you to the large fountain directly in the center of the star, he settles on the warm marble and gestures for you to sit beside him. The rushing water calms his erratic heartbeat, and, yet again, with his eyes closed he can pretend he is small, little more than a boy who belongs completely to himself and to his mother, the whim of his will the only thing that stirs his reason.

‘We have a bit of time to rest here,’ he says, leaning back and closing his eyes as the sun cascades over his skin. It warms him from within, the magic of his childhood returning on the breadth of a sunbeam. ‘I always like to sit here a while before I run my errands. One can never deny music, can they?’

Jaebeom awaits your response, what feels like his very spirit existing in anticipation of you. But when it does not come, his skin begins to tighten amidst another wave of unease, and he opens his eyes to find you have retreated so far within yourself the shock of it lives on your features.

Hands in your lap, your back is rigid and straight, gaze flicking between the citadel tower and the people mingling at its base - up and down and back again, rushing between each as though you will never have your fill, teeth chewing at the inside of your cheek. Your fingernails pick at your skin before pressing crescent shapes into your palms, adrenaline putting you in a state of anxiety so severe he finds he, too, is sitting up straight and watching the crowd for familiar faces.

‘Do you recognize something?’ It takes work to keep his voice calm and soothing, doing his best not to startle you.

‘There’s something wrong with this,’ is all you whisper, and Jaebeom scours the crowd for a sign of injury, panic, even an out of place cart, but he comes up empty, finding nothing untoward in the surroundings.

Once more, he studies every face that passes, every horse drawn carriage that moves past, wondering which of these is the culprit for your turmoil. It is only when your hand moves to his thigh, gripping tightly enough he comes to see your grip as a vice, that he notices what it is that has you so undone. 

At the base of the citadel, the crowd has started to dissipate, the smiling faces of mothers and their children departing after receiving their blessings. A group of four missionaries stands, handing out pamphlets and greeting passerby with neutral, unreadable expressions. Their royal blue cloaks catch the late morning sun, the velvet of the fabric gleaming in all their expensive glory, putting cerulean shadows on the limestone behind them. In this way, they are glowing, ephemeral visions that at once are otherworldly and oppressive, the sort of power in their light that would bring one to their knees.

As always, he shivers at the sight of them, but your grip on his leg tightens and when he looks at you again you are murmuring to yourself and he feels his jaw go slack.

‘Murderers,’ you hiss, softly enough that only he can hear but you say the word over and over, voice rising in pitch until your voice dies altogether.

You watch them, unblinking and repulsed, the fear and loathing in you so great he sees you now as a mere apparition of the woman you once were. A great tremor has started to creep through your limbs, body rocking back and forth as though you are at sea, your center of gravity warped as you continue to look and look. 

Running his hand up and down your back in an effort to calm you, Jaebeom feels his own voice start to waver. ‘What is it?’ 

You say nothing, merely shake your head, unwilling to speak for fear that they may hear you. All his question manages to do is inspire another round of mumbling, calling them murderers only to yourself and only to Jaebeom, simply because he is close enough for your voice to reach. His eyes scour the crowd for a discreet way to remove you from the fountain, looking in the direction of Stefan’s practice only to drop to a disappointed frown. In front of the pathway, at his end of the star,a group of people have gathered to inspect a vendor of Veruvian silk.

‘Murderers,’ you say again, and this time it is loud enough that a young boy passing by hears your voice, his eyes widening in surprise. 

Jaebeom grimaces apologetically, waving the boy along as he pulls you into his side, holding you close. Even in his state of panic, his heart breaks that this should be the first time he holds to him, the first time you would be able to remember, the comfort his arms reduced to merely a time and a place, and not a feeling. The trembling in your muscles is palpable, tangible enough his hands feel as though they are gripping something monstrous, something absolute in its knowledge and power. In a single moment, you have become something Other, shaking against his ribs with enough violence he fears you may tear the marble of the fountain asunder. Your hand leaves his thigh and comes to grip your seat, fingers pressing against the stone until your knuckles turn white. 

He’s certain the missionaries must see you, certain this will turn into something holy and something wholly unwelcome, but they seem to pay you both no mind, their attention devoted instead to the good and to the whole.

And just when he thinks he may be able to ease words out of you, the noise of you reduced to slow, deep inhales between your parted lips and the shaking in your muscles coming abruptly to a halt, you bed over, eyes wide in shock, as you vomit sea water, seaweed, and, most horribly of all, blood at your feet.

**Author's Note:**

> cross posted from my tumblr here: https://yeoldontknow.tumblr.com/post/627295597674856449/ciperion-12


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